Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Strong arms lifted me from the concrete, and a voice cut through the darkness, rough with anger and disbelief.

"Fuck, did she have no family? Why is she abandoned here like garbage?"

The words penetrated the fog of pain, and I wanted to laugh at the bitter irony. Yes, I had a family, and yes, they'd left me here to die like I was nothing more than roadside trash.

"Someone call an ambulance!" the voice shouted again, closer now.

I wanted to answer, wanted to tell this stranger that yes, I had a family, and yes, they'd left me here to bleed out on the pavement. But the words wouldn't come, only more blood spilling from my lips, warm and metallic.

"Stay with me," the voice commanded, and I felt pressure on my wounds, hands trying to stop the bleeding. "You're going to be okay."

Liar, I thought. Nothing was ever going to be okay again.

The wail of sirens grew louder, piercing through the haze. I felt movement, people rushing around me, urgent voices barking commands that made no sense.

Then I felt nothing at all.

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When I woke up, White ceiling tiles swam into focus above me, fluorescent lights burning my eyes. My body felt like it had been shattered and poorly glued back together, every breath sending sharp stabs through my ribs.

"Mrs. Hayes, you're awake." A doctor appeared at my bedside, her expression professional but kind. "You're very lucky to be alive."

Lucky. The word tasted bitter on my tongue, worse than the blood I'd choked on.

She adjusted something on the IV drip attached to my arm. "You sustained severe trauma from the impact. Fractured ribs, internal bleeding, severe concussion, and extensive bruising."

I stared at her, trying to process the words through the fog in my brain.

"You'll need to stay here for at least a week, possibly longer," she continued, checking the monitors beside my bed. "You're going to need complete rest and careful monitoring."

A week. Seven days in this sterile room with its beeping machines and antiseptic smell.

I turned my head toward the window, ignoring the spike of pain the movement caused. The parking lot below was full of cars, families coming and going, visiting their loved ones with flowers and balloons and worried expressions.

My phone sat on the bedside table, screen dark and silent.

I reached for it with trembling fingers, each movement sending protests through my battered body. No missed calls. No text messages. Nothing.

Maybe the hospital hadn't been able to reach Alex. Maybe he didn't know where I was.

I dialed his number, my heart hammering against my broken ribs. It rang once, twice, three times, then went to voicemail.

His voice on the recording was cheerful, professional. "You've reached Alex Hayes. Leave a message."

"Alex, it's me," I croaked, my voice barely recognizable. "I'm at Memorial Hospital. You know i was hit by a car. Please call me back."

I hung up and waited.

Day one passed with no calls. I told myself he was busy, that he hadn't checked his phone, that there was a reasonable explanation.

Day two brought only silence. The nurses came and went, checking my vitals, administering medication, asking if I needed anything. What I needed, they couldn't give me.

By day three, I stopped checking my phone every five minutes. I stopped making excuses for why my husband hadn't called, why my son hadn't asked about me.

I just stared at the ceiling and counted the tiles, trying not to think about how Tyler had looked at me while I bled out on the pavement.

"Still nothing?" Sophia's voice was tight with fury as she set down a container of homemade soup on my fourth day.

I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak. If I opened my mouth, I might start screaming and never stop.

"That bastard." She paced the small room like a caged animal, her hands clenched into fists. "And Tyler? Not even your own son?"

The mention of Tyler's name sent a fresh wave of pain through my chest, worse than any physical injury. I remembered the fever that wouldn't break when he was three, how I'd stayed awake for seventy-two hours straight, sponging his burning skin, forcing medicine past his clenched teeth.

I remembered the pneumonia when he was five, how the doctors said he might not make it, how I'd prayed to every god I could name. I remembered sleeping in a chair beside his hospital bed for two weeks, holding his small hand, singing the same lullabies over and over until my voice gave out.

I remembered every childhood illness, every scraped knee, every nightmare that had me running to his room in the middle of the night. I remembered the art projects for school that Alex was too busy to help with, the parent-teacher conferences he never attended, the soccer games where I was the only parent cheering from the sidelines.

"She probably jumped in front of that car on purpose to make us late."

His words echoed in my head, over and over, a wound that wouldn't stop bleeding.

"Krista." Sophia sat on the edge of my bed, taking my hand carefully to avoid the IV. "You can't go back there."

I looked at her, my best friend since college, the only person who'd stood by me through everything. "Where else would I go?"

"Anywhere but there." Her eyes were fierce, blazing with a protective anger I couldn't feel for myself. "Move in with me. My apartment's small, but we'll make it work."

But where else could I go? I had no money of my own, no job, nothing but a marriage contract that bound me to a man who'd rather watch me die than miss a birthday party.

The contract. I'd signed it seven years ago, desperate and naive, thinking that marrying Alex Hayes would save my father's failing business. Thinking that maybe, eventually, contractual obligation could turn into something real.

I'd been so stupid.

"I can't leave," I whispered. "The contract says—"

"Fuck the contract." Sophia's voice cracked. "He left you to die, Krista. He abandoned you in the street like garbage."

I knew she was right. I knew every word was true. But knowing something and being able to act on it were two different things.

The week crawled by with agonizing slowness. Sophia came every day, bringing food and magazines and a fury on my behalf that I couldn't seem to muster for myself. She brought clothes from my house when I asked, though she reported that Alex hadn't been home when she stopped by.

"His car wasn't in the driveway," she said carefully, like she was trying not to upset me. "And there were dishes piled in the sink."

Of course there were. Without me there to clean up after them, the house would fall apart.

The nurses were kind, the doctors efficient, but none of them could heal the emptiness that had settled in my chest. They could stitch my wounds and set my bones, but they couldn't fix what had broken inside me when my husband walked away.

On the seventh day, the doctor finally discharged me with a list of medications and warnings about taking it easy.

"No strenuous activity for at least six weeks," she said firmly. "And you'll need to come back for follow-up appointments. Do you have someone to help you at home?"

I lied and said yes.

The truth was too complicated, too humiliating to explain. Yes, I have a husband and a son, but they don't care if I live or die. Yes, I have a family, but they left me bleeding in the street. Yes, there are people in my house, but none of them will help me.

Sophia drove me back to the house in silence, her jaw tight with barely contained rage. I could feel her anger radiating off her in waves, hot and fierce.

"You don't have to do this," she said for the tenth time as we pulled onto my street. "You can stay with me. We'll figure something out."

But I needed to see it for myself. Needed to confirm what I already knew in my bones.

When we pulled up to the curb, I stared at the driveway for a long moment, trying to process what I was seeing.

A sleek red BMW sat in my parking spot, gleaming in the afternoon sun like a trophy. My sensible Toyota was nowhere to be seen.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," Sophia hissed.

I climbed out of the car slowly, every movement sending protests through my healing body. My ribs ached with each breath, my head throbbed, and my legs felt like they might give out at any moment.

The front door was unlocked, and I could hear laughter from inside before I even crossed the threshold.

Tyler's laughter. High-pitched and delighted, the way he never sounded around me anymore.

I pushed the door open and stepped into my own house like a stranger.

I pushed the door open and stepped into my own house like a stranger, the familiar creak of the hinges sounding foreign tonight.

The living room opened before me, soft lamplight spilling across the scene like spilled champagne.

Monica was there, blonde and radiant, spinning Tyler in wide, dizzying circles while he shrieked with pure, childish delight. She wore a scarlet dress that clung to every curve like liquid sin, the kind of designer piece that cost more than my entire monthly grocery budget and probably came with its own zip code. The silk hugged her high, perky breasts, dipped low enough between them to show the shadowed valley of cleavage, then skimmed down over hips that flared with obscene perfection. Her hair cascaded in expensive, tousled waves, lips painted a deep, wet red that looked freshly kissed.

She looked like she belonged here. Like she’d always belonged here.

And then there was Alex.

My husband.

He stood directly behind her, chest pressed flush to her back, his big hands splayed wide across the front of her body in shameless possession. One palm cupped the underside of her breast, thumb brushing slow, deliberate circles over the stiff peak of her nipple even through the thin silk. The other hand had already ventured lower.

His fingers were curled around the lush swell of her ass, kneading the firm, rounded flesh with slow, hungry pressure. The dress was so tight there that every squeeze pushed the fabric higher, inching it up the backs of her thighs until the lower curves of her cheeks were exposed, smooth, pale skin glowing under the lamplight, bisected by the thin black thong that disappeared between them. He dug in harder, fingertips sinking into the supple meat, spreading her just enough that I could see the delicate string of her underwear stretched taut over her puckered hole and the plump, glistening lips of her pussy barely covered by the scrap of lace.

Alex’s face was buried in the side of her neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below her ear. I watched his hips roll forward in a slow, filthy grind, pressing the thick ridge of his cock against the cleft of her ass so deliberately I could see the outline of him through his slacks. His breath came in ragged bursts against her throat as he squeezed her again, harder this time, lifting one cheek and letting it drop with a soft, obscene bounce before palming it roughly once more.

“God, you feel so fucking good,” he murmured against her skin, voice low and wrecked, the words carrying across the suddenly too-quiet room. His fingers slipped under the edge of her thong, tugging the fabric aside just enough to expose more of her, slick, swollen, and unmistakably wet fold. He dragged the pad of his middle finger along her slit in one long, slow stroke, gathering her arousal before circling her clit with lazy, teasing pressure.

Monica let out a breathy laugh that turned into a moan when he pinched her nipple at the same moment he pushed two fingers inside her, curling them deep. Her head tipped back against his shoulder, eyes half-lidded, lips parted on a sound that was pure sex.

Tyler was still giggling, oblivious, spinning away toward the couch.

But Alex never stopped touching her.

And neither of them looked up to see me standing there, frozen in the doorway of the house that used to be mine.

In my house. In the living room where I'd spent countless nights alone, waiting for him to come home. In the space where I'd tried so desperately to build something resembling a family.

The scene was so domestic, so perfectly content, that for a moment I wondered if I'd walked into the wrong house. Maybe this was someone else's life, someone else's nightmare.

Tyler spotted me first. His smile dropped like a stone, replaced by the same disgusted expression he'd worn while I bled out on the pavement.

"Mom's back," he said flatly, like he was announcing the arrival of an unwanted pest.

Monica turned next, her eyes widening in surprise before settling into something calculating and cold. She didn't pull away from Alex's embrace, didn't even look embarrassed.

Instead, she smiled. A small, satisfied smile that said she'd won.

Alex looked up last, and when our eyes met, I saw no shame, no guilt, no recognition that he'd abandoned his wife to die a week ago. Just mild annoyance, like I was a delivery person who'd interrupted his afternoon.

His hands were still on Monica's body, still holding her close.

The silence stretched between us.

"What took you so long?Are you really coming from the hospital?" he asked.